Free Finding Rebecca: A Novel of Love and the Holocaust by Eoin Dempsey Page A

in his throat as the tears came. “How could you do
that to me? How could you keep Rebecca’s letters from me? She needed me, and I
wasn’t there for her. I said that I’d always be there for her….”

    ‚ÄúIt wasn‚Äôt an easy‚Ķ I‚Äôm sorry
Christopher. I thought you’d get over her in time and we could move on with our
lives. I was going to give them to you when….”

    ‚ÄúWhere are the letters, Father? Where
are my letters?” Christopher said through angry, hot, deep breaths.

    ‚ÄúChristopher, just give me a chance
to explain first. I had to try to do the best thing for both of you. You know I
think of her as my own.”

    ‚ÄúWhere are the letters?‚Äù

    ‚ÄúChristopher, we‚Äôve all had a bit too
much to drink and I think that it would be best if….”

    ‚ÄúIf you kept his letters, give them
to him, Father.” Alexandra said.

    ‚ÄúStefan, give him the letters.‚Äù Uli
said.

    Christopher stood, staring at his
father, his face a few inches from his. He had never stood this close to him
before and had never seen that flash in his eyes.

    ‚ÄúCome with me.‚Äù Stefan said and
pushed past Uli on the stairs and down into his study. Christopher walked
behind him, his eyes fixed on his back as if trying to pierce a hole in it.
Stefan walked into the study. He stopped in front of the bookshelves above his
desk and reached up behind the picture of Christopher’s mother for a leather
bound box. He opened a drawer and took out a key and opened it. Christopher saw
the letters on top “I had to open the letters to see if she was all right, and
to get an address, I had to see….”

    ‚ÄúGive me my letters, Father.‚Äù Christopher
said, his voice almost calm now. The impulsive anger had given way to something
far worse.   He held out his hand and
Stefan placed the pile, about five letters, into his hand.

    ‚ÄúGo to bed, Christopher,
it’s time you…”

    ‚ÄúNo Father, no. You don‚Äôt get to tell
me what to do anymore.‚Äù Christopher left him there alone in the study.   He walked past Uli, still standing at
the top of the stairs, but Christopher didn’t look at him and walked onwards to
his bedroom. He turned the light on and sat down on the bed, spreading the
letters out on the quilt. He heard a knock on the door.

    ‚ÄúAre you all right in there?‚Äù
Alexandra said.

    ‚ÄúYes, I‚Äôm fine. I can‚Äôt talk to you
now, Alex, I’ll speak to you tomorrow.” He heard her mutter a faint good night
and then she was gone. He picked up the first letter. It was almost three years
since Rebecca had written it, since she had touched it. He pulled out the piece
of paper from the envelope and read the first few words, skimming through the
lines, looking for anything important, almost too eager to finish and move onto
the next to read the letter itself. Sentences stood out. She had gotten a job,
collecting glasses in a bar that a friend of Peter’s worked in. She was
thinking of her parents more, but had not contacted them. Peter was happy and
said he would never return to Jersey again, although she hoped she would. No
address.  

    Christopher placed the letter down on
the bed and opened the next one, written to arrive in time for Christmas 1934.
He scanned through it and came to the address in the middle. They had found
somewhere more permanent to live, in a place called North End. She finished the
letter by asking about Alexandra and his father. She said she missed them both,
but especially him. Christopher gritted his teeth crumpling the delicate letter
in his fist, crumpling the words that she had written to him. He took another
look at the address, before moving onto the next letter, dated February of
1935. Her first words were to ask why he had never written to her. She supposed
that he was very busy, or that the letter might have been